


Ordeal By Fire

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [14]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, Broken Bones, F/F, Genderbending, Injury, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Interlude V: Family troubles abound after Raoul and Christine return from the near miss with Erik in the graveyard. The two of them steal a moment alone in the chaos, trying to prepare for what's in front of them. At the opera house, one of the de Chagny siblings faces a ghost's wrath.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 13
Kudos: 20





	Ordeal By Fire

**Author's Note:**

> There is some fluff in this chapter you will enjoy! But things also start to slide into darker territory with this installment. Not that you weren't expecting it with the source material, but a warning, even still!

Raoul pays the fiacre driver again when they arrive home. He tries to protest, but she presses the money into his hands, anyway.

“Are you two sure you’re all right?” he asks them both as they climb out, Raoul still holding her sword cane. He looks…bemused that a house as grand as this might be their destination, given Raoul’s disheveled appearance. Christine, at least, looks more put together, though her dress is stained with snow and smoke.

“Quite, thank you monsieur,” Christine says kindly. “I appreciate you asking.”

He goes with one more concerned look, and Raoul faces the door in front of her. This is her home, but she’s a little afraid of it, right now. What will Philippe say? He’ll worry. He’ll fret. But she needs his help. She has to ask for it, or those damned police officers will never listen to her. She hates it, but it’s true.

She feels her gender more acutely now than she ever has. The constraints the world puts on her. The frustrations of being condescended to. She’s lucky, she knows. She has money, and a fairly progressive family, despite the old name and the title.

But she’s still trapped, sometimes. Even more so because she’s not doing what a woman is supposed to. She’s refuses to marry a man. She’s impetuous, sometimes. Dreamy headed. Her clothes aren’t right. And worst of all, she loves only other women.

And now, she’s in trouble.

She hopes Philippe doesn’t start to see her as a burden. She couldn’t bear it.

“Philippe is going to kill me,” she whispers, more to herself than anything else.

“Don’t be silly,” Christine replies, slipping an arm around Raoul’s waist, a bold thing, out here in the street, given the way people are talking right now. The rumors that aren’t so much rumors, anymore. “It will be all right, you’ll see.”

Christine’s smile gives Raoul courage, and they go inside, met immediately by two people she certainly wasn’t expecting to see.

Juliette’s two children, thirteen-year-old Estelle, and eight-year-old Henri.

What…Juliette isn’t supposed to be visiting, right now. Has she been so caught up at the opera that she forgot? She didn’t have anything written down and she…

“ _Tante Raoul_!” they both exclaim rushing toward her, and then stopping short at the sight of the blade in Raoul’s hand.

“Hello,” Raoul says, a touch bewildered as she keeps the sword away from them. “I’m so pleased to see both of you, what a surprise!”

“Is that a sword?” Estelle gets straight to the point, stars in her eyes at the sight of it, and if things weren’t so serious Raoul would laugh. Estelle’s a great deal like her, which Juliette is always pleased to point out. Given they’re less than ten years apart, Estelle is a bit like a younger sister, rather than a niece, sometimes.

“Is that blood on the edge?” Henri chimes in, and he looks impressed “Is it _your_ blood?”

“No, no,” Raoul assures them just as Juliette’s husband Francois round the corner into the entrance hall. The son of a vastly wealthy merchant, he married Juliette when they were twenty-two, and he’s been a part of Raoul’s life since she was barely seven.

“Good lord, Raoul,” he says, his eyes widening as he takes in her appearance. “Are you quite all right?” He looks at Christine. “You must be Mademoiselle Daae, I’m Juliette’s husband, I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Christine smiles at the kindness in his voice, and she’s about to respond when a conversation from the main sitting room interrupts them.

And a voice Raoul wasn’t expecting to hear. At least not today. 

Her sister, Eloise.

“Philippe, you aren’t taking this seriously enough.”

“I think I know whether I’m taking something seriously or not.” There’s a shortness to Philippe’s tone, indicating his irritation. “We’ve barely seen you lately, Eloise, so I’m not sure I’m eager to hear your opinion.”

“You asked Juliette all the way to Paris and for what?” Eloise asks, her words sharp as she ignores the second part of what her brother said. “To still let Raoul do whatever she likes? I told you this opera patronage was a bad idea. She can’t handle the responsibility, and it’s not right, for a woman, besides. She’s not your brother, Philippe. She’s your sister. You ought to remember it.”

“Eloise…” Philippe growls.

Raoul’s stomach sinks. Though Eloise is still in Paris she lives with her marquis husband and two children across the city, and Raoul’s been avoiding her as much as possible lately, much to Philippe’s chagrin. He’s always tried to stop them from fighting, but it’s never really worked.

“Philippe asked me here so we can try and support Raoul through this,” Juliette cuts in. “If you and Alexandre were being stalked by a madman, I would do the same for you.”

“It is not the same,” Eloise insists.

“It is just the same.” Philippe’s tone turns hard. “I’ve told you before I won’t tolerate this unkindness toward your sister.”

“You’re well enough acquainted with the rumor mill to understand that it can never be the same,” Eloise says. “Raoul was barely hiding this outrageous affair before the new year, but now everyone who was at the opera told everyone else that our sister is sleeping with a chorus girl.”

“Eloise, please…” Juliette hisses. “It shouldn’t matter, but Christine is more than a chorus girl. She’s awed the opera more than once.”

“Please what, Juliette?” Eloise shouts. “If she does this in secret then all right—despite the fact that it’s going to make her an unhappy spinster. But she’s flaunting it, and people are talking even more than before. You can’t be a de Chagny and go unnoticed.”

Flaunting. If only Eloise knew how hard they tried to keep this a secret to avoid ridicule, and how painful that was. She doesn’t seem to care that a murderer exposed them.

Raoul spins around toward Christine, feeling her niece and nephew’s eyes on her.

“I uh…” she clasps Christine’s hand. “Would you mind going upstairs and seeing if Marie might draw me a bath? I need to speak to my siblings a moment and it’s. You don’t…” she lowers her voice. “You don’t need to hear Eloise.” She makes eye contact with Francois, who has always been deeply sweet to her.

“Let’s go help Mademoiselle Daae, shall we?” he suggests, though both children insist on a hug from Raoul before they’re willing to go, and she presses kisses to each of their heads.

She gives Christine one last smile before she squares her shoulders and walks into the sitting room, dropping the broken sword cane onto a table with a clatter.

“You might want to make sure I haven’t come in the door before you insult me, or more importantly Christine, Eloise,” Raoul says, and all three of her siblings turn around to face her. She must look a sight, she knows, with her rumpled shirt and torn jacket, her waistcoat missing and her skirt damp from the snow.

“Raoul,” Juliette whispers, her hand going to her mouth. “ _Ma chérie_ , are you all right?”

“I…” Raoul sucks in a breath because she’s not all right, not one bit, but she doesn’t want Eloise to see her cry. “There was an incident and I…” she sucks in a breath again.

Dammit.

“Raoul.” Philippe’s voice is soft. There’s no lecture, no teasing, just worry, and it steadies her, for some reason. Philippe treats her like a brother more than a sister, sometimes, but right now he sounds like a father. “Let’s sit down, all right?”

Raoul isn’t a child but she feels like one when Philippe sits on one side and Juliette the other, while Eloise stands a little apart, her arms crossed over her chest. It’s always been like that, Eloise standing apart from the three of them even though Raoul is the one most different from the rest. Juliette married for love, even if that love just happened to be wealthy, too, if not noble. Eloise married to climb higher, even if she didn’t really need to. Philippe is an eternal bachelor, content to flit from woman to woman, and said women apparently all right with that.

But Raoul…

Well Raoul’s in love with that little girl she met by the sea. She always has been.

And Eloise has never liked it.

“This is a familiar picture, isn’t it?” Eloise snaps. “Raoul in trouble again and you two just letting her do it, just like when she kissed that girl at the party a few years ago and everyone started talking. When you let her dally with your friend’s sister, Juliette. When everyone saw her take those fencing lessons you let her have, Philippe. Raoul, when are you going to grow up? You’re embarrassing this family and Papa wouldn’t have let it go on, I promise you.” 

Raoul puts her head in her hands, her fingers tangling into her hair. “Eloise, _please_ …”

“I want what’s best for you, Raoul,” Eloise continues, unabated. “Babying you because _Maman_ died when you were born is not…”

“Eloise enough!” Philippe shouts, a rare thing. “Sit down. Our father wouldn’t have tolerated this cruelty toward your sister, either.”

Eloise, finally a touch reprimanded, tugs an armchair closer, and does as her brother asks.

Philippe takes Raoul’s shaking hand. “Raoul, what happened?”

Raoul sniffs, but it doesn’t keep the tears back. “Christine went to the cemetery, to see her father,” she begins. “And as I was stepping out to retrieve some breakfast I saw a note outside the door of the flat, signed by the ghost. And I…I ran to the graveyard and he was there, trying to lure Christine away.”

“My word…” Juliette mutters, her hand going to Raoul’s back.

“He was throwing these… magic trick explosives,” Raoul adds. “And he had my sword cane. He must have stolen it from the opera. I got it from him and we…we fought. I injured him just enough to get us away.”

Eloise gets up from her chair, throwing her hands up in the air. “Raoul de Chagny, you got into a swordfight with a mad man in a graveyard?” She spins toward Philippe. “And you said you were taking this seriously enough.”

“He tried to murder me, Eloise!” Raoul shouts. “Would you be happier if I were dead and couldn’t embarrass you anymore?” She takes a deep breath, admitting what she didn’t want to say before. “He was looking through our window. Watching us for God knows how long and please don’t…don’t shout at me, I can’t fight with you today.”

Eloise’s face turns deep red, but whether that’s from shame or even the vague mention of intimacy with Christine, Raoul doesn’t know.

“Of course I don’t wish that, Raoul.”

Philippe and Juliette share a glance.

“Juliette, go check on Christine, if you please?” Philippe asks. “Eloise, take a walk and cool your head, I need to speak to Raoul alone.”

Both do as he asks, and Juliette presses a kiss to Raoul’s hair before she goes.

As soon as she’s alone with her brother, Raoul lets some of the tears come, though she tries to keep herself in check.

“I thought I could protect her, Philippe,” she says, the words coming out one by one, choked and husky. “From him. I got the flat, thinking it meant she wouldn’t have to sleep with him watching, but he was just watching us both.”

Philippe pulls her to him, and Raoul feels small against his broad shoulder, remembering how he would pick her up when she was a child, toss her into the air, and then catch her again.

_You’re so gangly, Raoul!_ He would proclaim in glee. _I expect you’ll be quite tall!_

She was really hoping she could catch herself, this time.

“You are doing everything you can,” Philippe whispers. “You can only do your best, Raoul, in this utterly mad situation.” He pulls back, tipping Raoul’s chin up with one finger. “You’re a brave woman. I do know that.”

“I need your help,” Raoul admits. “With the police. I have them set to come to the opera in two days to discuss the performance but they…well they did their best to try to pay more attention to Andre and Firmin than they did me. And this isn’t just about catching the ghost. It’s about keeping Christine safe. And I…” Raoul swallows. “They can say what they like about me. But not about her.” She looks away, toward the door. “I suppose Eloise would rather her snobby friends be her sister, instead of me.”

“That’s not true,” Philippe says, clasping Raoul’s shoulder. “She just…I’ll speak to her. And I’ll come with you to the opera, to speak to the police, and let them know they will listen to my sister.”

Raoul doesn’t argue, because she doesn’t have the energy to argue over her sister and take in everything that happened this morning. She does smile at the second bit.

“It’s a blessing you let me have those fencing lessons.” Raoul casts a glance back at the broken sword cane, which looks strange among the finery of the sitting room. “Or I’m not sure what might have happened. I…well to tell the truth, I carried that cane because…do you remember when I had that bruise, and I said I fell? A few years ago?”

Philippe nods.

“Well I didn’t…I didn’t fall. Some men attacked me.”

“Raoul…” Philippe says, with all the long-suffering wisdom of a parent. “I know that.”

For the first time all day, Raoul laughs, winning back some of the joy she woke up with this morning. Philippe laughs too, and for a moment, just a tiny, joyous moment, Raoul feels safe. It can’t last, but she stores it away for later. She glances around the room at the mahogany furniture and the fireplace and the two paintings on the wall—one of the family before she was born, and one after. She studies her mother’s face, wondering what the woman she only knew through stories would do right now. She’s heard so many times _you’re so much like your mother, Raoul_ , and she only sometimes knows what that means. She asked her father, once, what trait he thought of most when he thought of her mother.

_Brave_ , she remembers him saying. He didn’t really elaborate, but there was something in his voice. Something that said he meant it.

Raoul hopes she can be brave, too.

“When did you write Juliette?” Raoul asks, turning back toward her brother. “I assume that’s why she’s here?”

“Right after the Masquerade,” Philippe admits, and there might be tears in his eyes, glistening in the pale sunlight coming in through the window. “I knew, then, that this was headed somewhere I didn’t like. And I wanted her here.”

Quiet hangs between them, and Raoul feels so deeply vulnerable. So raw. Afraid, when she didn’t want to be. She tugs the decrepit ribbon from her hair, the sweaty strands falling loose.

“I love her, Philippe,” Raoul says, running her hand across the deep green embroidery of the sofa. “I love her so much and I…I can’t let him take her away, even if it means risking my life again. She would do the same for me.”

“No one is dying,” Philippe says, clearing his throat like he can’t contemplate the idea. “Let’s go get you in the bath, all right? Are you bleeding?”

Raoul sighs, fondly. “No, Philippe.” She quirks an eyebrow. “But the ghost is.”

Philippe laughs, full and warm, and it’s so different from the cold, chill-inducing laughter Raoul heard in the graveyard.

“Good show, Raoul,” he says, slinging an arm around Raoul’s shoulders. “Good show.” 

* * *

Raoul heaves a sigh as she sinks into the warm bath, toying with some of the suds with the tips of her fingers. Steam rises from the water, fogging up the mirror. It’s hotter than is usually suggested, but Raoul likes it that way.

“A swordfight, Raoul,” Madeline tuts, laying a towel nearby. “You do make me worry. But I will be glad to have you home for good. I’ve missed you, being in and out as you have. But I know Mademoiselle Daae has needed your company.”

Raoul smiles, gesturing Madeline down and putting a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve missed you too. Thank you. For the bath. And please, call her Christine, she’ll feel strange if you don’t.”

Madeline pats her cheek before heading out the door. There’s a knock not two minutes after.

“Raoul?” Christine asks, soft, and maybe a little shy. “May I come in?”

Raoul blushes. Silly, for obvious reasons. Why is she being ridiculous? It’s being here, she supposes. Philippe said that she and Christine could move into the suite of rooms that used to belong to Raoul’s parents, and Raoul thinks they ought to soon, for some modicum of privacy that her own chamber might not provide. Philippe rarely brings any of his mistresses here—Sorelli he did, once, but they seem to have amicably broken that off, but remained friends—and Raoul never had Celine here, so they’ve never truly charted this territory before, especially since her sisters moved out with their respective husbands.

“Yes,” she calls out, regardless of all of this. “Please do.”

Christine opens the door, dressed in a different blue gown than she was wearing before, her curls hanging loose. Raoul loves Christine’s hair like this, the way the chestnut strands frame her face, the way Christine runs her hands through them when she laughs.

“Hello,” Christine says. “Juliette let me borrow this until Philippe and Francois come back from the flat with my things. They’re very sweet, to get them. I told them they needn’t bring it all just now, but they seemed to insist.”

“Probably best not to take the risk twice,” Raoul replies, gesturing at the nearby chair, and Christine pulls it over, settling down on the edge like she can’t quite ease her nerves. “Lean a little closer?”

Christine gives her a quizzical look before doing as requested, and Raoul slides her wet, soapy hand against Christine’s cheek before stealing a kiss.

Christine giggles. “Raoul! You pest, you’ve left soap in my hair.”

Raoul sinks back into the water. “Would you have rather I not kissed you?”

Now it’s Christine who’s blushing, tucking the damp curl behind her ear. “No, I obviously don’t wish that.”

Everything that just happened sits between them. The eerie, snowy graveyard. Their own screams. The smell of smoke and the clang of blades. The notes of the violin and the word _angel_ repeated over and over and over again.

The laughter.

The terrible, spine-tingling laughter and the flash of pain in the ghost’s eyes, left behind like a residue after the rage.

He wants to make them hurt, too. Make them hurt to make Christine his.

_Let it be war upon you both!_

They can’t run away from what’s coming. They can only wait in this odd space between.

“My hair smells like smoke,” Raoul says, without really meaning to say anything.

“We should wash it, then.”

“I’m already in the bath, I don’t want to pull out the hair washing tub and all of the nonsense, it’s all right. I don’t want to make Madeline do more than she’s already doing, helping Juliette too.”

Christine gestures at the pitcher nearby. “I’ll help you. I think we can manage in the tub.”

“We?”

“Yes, we.” Christine taps the edge of Raoul’s nose, leaving no room for argument. “Go ahead and get your hair wet, I’ll only use a little soap so we don’t dry it out too much.”

Raoul slips under the surface, taking a moment under the water to blush again, this small, domestic, thing somehow feeling more intimate than anything yet. She comes back up to see Christine filling a bowl with lukewarm water and shaving off some soap into it before pulling the chair up behind the sloped back of the tub and lathering her hands.

“Sit up a little,” Christine says.

Raoul obeys, moving from where she’s lounging against the back of the tub to sit with her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around. Christine starts massaging Raoul’s scalp, and the scent of clean soap overpowers the bathroom.

“Is this all right?” Christine asks.

Raoul hums in answer, and Christine laughs a little, continuing her ministrations.

“I’m very proud of you, you know,” Raoul says. “Not in a condescending way just in…I know how hard it must be to fight off his voice in your head. “I…well I’ve only been here for the terror. I know he meant something to you, once. Even if he was lying. You didn’t know he was.”

It’s hard to say those words. To say anything kind at all about the man who wants to rip Christine away from her and lock her down in a dungeon with him. Who tried to kill her only a few hours ago. But this isn’t emotionally simple, for Christine, and she wants to say that out loud.

“I wish I could have done it sooner,” Christine whispers, slowly down her movements and spreading the lathered soap further down Raoul’s long hair. “But I…I kept thinking of how kind his voice was, at first. How lonely he sounded, and how it mirrored how lonely I felt, except for Meg. He was a strict teacher, mind, and I was always a little afraid, but I felt…chosen, by him. I just…I didn’t know exactly what he was choosing me for. I think, sometimes, of how it might have been if he was only my teacher, and not trying to force these other things. How maybe he…maybe he could have loved you, too. Instead of hating you.”

Raoul reaches up, stilling Christine’s hand and pulling it toward her a moment.

“You are the kindest person alive,” Raoul says, gentle with the words. “And I’m sorry if he’s making you feel otherwise, right now. You didn’t betray him. He betrayed you.”

Christine squeezes Raoul’s hand, some tears glistening in her eyes as she lets go. “I’m sorry this has caused trouble with your sister.”

Raoul rolls her eyes, though she feels worse about Eloise’s attitudes than she wants to admit. “Just like Philippe and Juliette and I have always been close, I’ve always fought with Eloise, which you know some about. She didn’t like my aunt that I was staying with when I met you by the sea, either. Thought she was too much a spinster and I always wondered if Aunt Isabelle was like me. She never married, but there was a woman who lived with her, for a period of time. And then another, later on. Maybe she sensed it in me, too.”

“Maybe so.” Christine’s voice sounds a little lighter, her own identity still new and fresh to her. “I liked her.”

“She liked you,” Raoul says, leaning forward a little so Christine rinse out her hair. “I missed her when she died.”

Some of the tension in Raoul’s back eases as the warm water pours over her head and Christine washes the soap out, the smell of smoke and sweat finally easing off. Raoul leans back against the tub once her hair is clean, and Christine rests her hand on the cool porcelain. Raoul claims that hand for her own, and they sit in contented quiet for a few minutes before there’s another knock on the door.

Except, the knocker doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Juliette!” Raoul exclaims, moving some of the suds over herself with her free hand and noting that Christine doesn’t let go of the other. “I’m not dressed.”

Juliette cocks one hip and steps into the bathroom anyway. “Please, Raoul. As if I haven’t seen you stark naked a hundred times before. I bathed you myself when you were little because you fussed too much for the maid and wanted me or Philippe.”

“ _Juliette_.”

Raoul blushes yet again, and Christine laughs.

Juliette grins, looking wicked. “Raoul reads so many stories and love poems I do hope she’s an excellent kisser, Christine. She’s very private about it all. Won’t tell me a thing about her romantic life like a good sister should.”

Raoul takes this opportunity to splash some of the soapy water toward Juliette, who gasps in surprise.

“Raoul!”

“Well, don’t ask about my kissing talents, Juliette de Chagny. It’s none of your business, but I haven’t heard any complaints from anyone, so. There.”

Christine laughs again, and it makes Raoul laugh, too, some of the heaviness dissipating from her chest. Juliette shakes her head, but she smiles at Raoul and Christine’s intertwined hands as she crouches near the tub, still looking elegant, somehow.

“I’m sorry about Eloise,” she says. “I’ll try and talk to her later since I fear she and Philippe might try and take each other’s heads off.” She cups Raoul’s chin a moment. “Neither he nor I agree with anything she said. I know you know that, but it bears repeating.”

Raoul nods. It’s not as if people haven’t been talking about her for ages, but usually she’s charming enough that they let it go, but Eloise has always been aggravated by Raoul refusing to marry. What Eloise doesn’t seem to understand is that Raoul would _deeply_ rather not be the subject of so much speculation right now. She’d just like to be happy.

Juliette looks at Christine next. “And whatever Eloise may say, my dear, know that you are most welcome in this house. I’m very glad you’ll be moving in.”

“Thank you,” Christine says, her blue eyes that are a little darker than Raoul’s own brightening up. “Your little girl was asking me about my singing and seemed eager, by the way. I’d be happy to teach her, whenever you’re in Paris.”

“Lovely,” Juliette says. “I think we’ll be staying for a while to help you two get through this, so as soon as this dreadful business at the opera is over, we can start. She’ll love that.” She winks at Raoul. “The children are happy we’ll be here, they’re absolutely in love with Raoul. You may have noticed, Christine.”

Raoul blushes a fourth and final time. She rests her head against the tub, her hand held loosely in Christine’s as she listens to her fiancée talk with her sister, glad to see these two parts of her life melding together with ease.

She only wishes she could banish the ghost from her mind, but he remains there, his eyes glinting with wrath and a strange, alarming fascination. Like he wanted to take her apart piece by piece to make sense of her.

She wasn’t the rival he expected.

He loves Christine, or at least he does by whatever his dark definition of love is.

But he _hates_ her.

Raoul knows one thing for certain. She saw it when their gazes locked during the fight, and there was nothing but murderous intent.

He’s changed his mind about putting his hands to a woman.

And that has changed the game. 

* * *

“Now, see here, messieurs,” Philippe’s saying, standing next to Raoul on the stage with Andre and Firmin in tow. “You are to listen to my sister. She’s the patron here and knows perfectly well what she’s doing.”

“Agreed, agreed,” Andre murmurs, and Firmin, apparently frightened enough of the opera ghost to release his grudge against Raoul and Christine for the most part, nods alongside his friend.

The police’s arrival has interrupted the dress rehearsal, much to a pale-faced Monsieur Reyer’s chagrin. Even Madame Giry looks nervous, her hand tight on her walking cane as she snaps at the ballet girls. Meg’s escaped her mother’s wrath and slipped over toward Christine, who is dressed in her costume, a black and peach monstrosity of a thing, though Raoul can at least say she likes the boots. Carlotta’s with them, pointing out something in the score and earning one of Christine’s real smiles as Piangi looks on with interest.

The ghost’s made this place of art and music a place of fear and anxiety, and Raoul hates him for it.

Among the many other things she hates him for.

“I hear you, Monsieur le Comte,” the chief replies, though he’s been less troublesome than his men, by far. “We’ll report here for the performance, two hours beforehand. Mademoiselle,” he continues, looking at Raoul. “What’s the idea here?”

Philippe steps away now that the police are speaking directly to Raoul, getting a close look at the sets and also at Sorelli, who’s stretching in the corner. She waves at Philippe, and Raoul bites back a grin. She’ll never understand their on-again, off-again affair with no sniff of commitment, but it seems to please them.

“We’ll need to discuss the specifics away from here,” Raoul answers. She does have a plan she’s discussed with the managers, but she’s loathe to speak of many details where the ghost can hear them. “We’ll need ten men, to be secure and not overwhelming to the audience.”

“Why don’t we just go down there?” one officer asks. “Is there some particular reason we can’t?”

Andre shakes his head, but this comment draws the attention of Madame Giry, who turns to look at them severely.

“You don’t want to do that, monsieur,” she says, and she looks at Raoul with worry, like she suspects her of already having tried, or thinking of it, at least. “There are dangers, beneath the opera house.”

“Dangers?” the chief asks. “That’s very cryptic, madame.”

Raoul turns when she thinks she sees something out of the corner of her eye. Something up in the flys.

But then…

No, there’s nothing.

“I am not trying to be cryptic,” Madame Giry insists, a touch of panic in her eyes. “It’s only the truth.”

“It would be helpful, Madame Giry,” Andre adds, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man who’s had a headache for a week or more. “If you could give us any specifics? Things you _know_?”

Raoul hears something creak.

What was that?

“I’m saying it wouldn’t be impossible to _drown_ , in the bowels down there,” Madame Giry answers, and she sounds solemn now, rather than annoyed.

She looks at Raoul again, and Raoul doesn’t know why. She’s seemed less-than-pleased with her since the beginning, though there was something in her face, this morning, while Christine told her and Meg the specifics of what happened in the graveyard. Something motherly and afraid. Something that said Raoul had perhaps _earned_ something.

There’s another creak, and…Raoul spins fully around now, drawing a few people’s eyes.

Another creak and something’s…something’s _falling_.

Raoul looks up, and she sees it, then, the barest flash of a black cape and one of the counterweights falling with alarming speed. A sandbag.

And it’s heading right for Philippe.

Oh god. Oh no. No. _No_.

What was she thinking, meeting here? But she had to show the officers the stage, she…

“Philippe! Raoul calls out, stepping forward, but she can’t get there in time to push him out of the way. “Philippe move!”

Philippe casts one glance back at her in confusion before starting to heed her, but the sandbag still crashes down onto his forearm.

Something cracks. A _bone_ cracks.

Phillipe falls to the stage with a strangled shout, the screams of the chorus girls—and Andre’s surprised shout—echoing through the empty theater.

Raoul slides to her knees as soon as she reaches her brother. He’s breathing—too fast, in fact—and she puts a hand to his face, urging him to open his eyes. “Philippe,” she says, keeping her voice low. “Philippe, I need you to look at me.”

She must stay calm, she has to stay _calm_.

There’s noise, behind her. Shouts. Chaos. Footsteps and someone saying _up there, a note_ , but Raoul drowns it all out, centering in on her brother. The only thing she doesn’t drown out is Christine coming down beside her, shushing Monsieur Reyer when he objects because of her costume.

Philippe opens his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath and reaching for his arm.

“No, no, don’t touch it.” Raoul tries to soothe her older brother, who is so used to soothing her, in his way. “There’s pain? Does it feel broken?”

Philippe stubbornly tries to move his forearm, shouting out in pain again as he does so.

Raoul spins around toward the managers, who look horrified. “A doctor, please messieurs, urgently. Is there one nearby?”

“Dr. Aubert…” Philippe mutters, speaking of their family doctor who is across Paris from the opera. “He…”

“He’s too far away,” Raoul answers, running her thumb across Philippe’s cheek. “We need someone now.”

Philippe shuts his eyes and grasps Raoul’s hand, a sure sign of his distress in front of a crowd.

“There’s one across the street, I’ll go, hopefully it will lend some urgency to the matter,” Andre says, sweeping his hat onto his head before he’s off.

Meg retrieves a pillow to put beneath Philippe’s head, and they wait and they wait and they _wait_ , and it’s only fifteen minutes, really, before the doctor arrives, but it feels interminable. Raoul feels Christine next to her, and she wants to reach for her hand, she needs to, but she can’t because everyone is watching, _he_ is watching and she hates this.

The intent was more than a broken bone. She knows it.

The intent was murder.

The doctor arrives, and they move Philippe to the chaise lounge in the manager’s office.

The doctor pronounces a broken forearm, and a nasty one, though it will heal if taken care of. Raoul doesn’t let her tears fall when the doctor sets her brother’s arm, but she wants to when he cries out in pain, her solid, sturdy, sometimes cranky brother who always supports her. Her father died when she was twelve, but Philippe’s been more of one her entire life. She keeps herself calm. She keeps steady. She listens to the doctor and gets detailed instructions about what to do once they take Philippe home, and what to tell their usual physician.

Juliette is going to be so upset. And Eloise is going to blame her.

It is her fault, isn’t it? She asked for his help, and after the graveyard, she should have kept every member of her family out of this opera house. Christine has to be here. She has to be here. But her siblings do not.

Should she take Christine and run?

No.

No, he’ll follow them. She knows he will. If he’ll go to the graveyard he’ll come to their house or chase them out to the country or…

How is he _everywhere_?

She keeps steady and dry-eyed until she steps out into the quiet grand hall, and Christine gives her the note that fell earlier. Christine takes her hand and tightly laces their fingers together, even if anyone might come around the corner and see them. Raoul’s always longed for the freedom to take a woman’s hand in public, and it scratches against her skin that the ghost gave them that freedom inside the opera house for his own use. Exposing them in front of a crowd. Forcing them into situations that compel them to turn toward the other in ways they’ve trained themselves to only do in private.

Raoul opens the note, and there’s words written in fresh red ink on the paper, some of it splattered and dripping like blood down the page. A drop leaks off the edge and onto Raoul’s hand, staining the crevices of her knuckles red before falling to the floor.

_Devil take the hindmost, de Chagny. You wanted to play my game, girl? Well. Time to play for your life._

_Your move._

_O.G._

Raoul bites back a scream. She bites it back until her lips bleed, a metallic, coppery taste on her tongue. She wants to run through to the theater and tell the ghost to face her, _now_ , and end this. But she can’t. It will only make things worse. The muffled sound echoes into the vast, marbled hall as Christine throws all caution to the wind and wraps her arms around Raoul’s waist from behind, holding tight.

The sunset spills through the windows, orange-red light mixing like fire with the shadows on the floor.

Footsteps echo into the quiet. Behind them. Next to them. Up above on the stairs.

Everywhere.

He’s watching them. Playing tricks. Raoul knows it. Words spill into the silence, angry, heartbroken words spoken into this haunted place.

Except, they aren’t the ghost’s. They’re Christine’s.

They’re Christine’s, and she’s pressing Raoul against her chest, no matter that Raoul is four inches taller, no matter that she’s small and easily whisked away by the man terrorizing them.

They’re Christine’s, and she’s speaking to her teacher, her angel, with ire. Fear, too. Her voice shakes. But she speaks even still.

_Not her move. Ours._

* * *

“Raoul, _ma petite_ ,” Philippe says, his words a touch slurred. “I’m all right. Go rest.”

They’re back home now, Philippe settled in his bed and his longtime valet Lucien fluttering about, nagging him not to bother the newly done plaster bandage on his arm.

“The Laudanum is making you think you’re all right,” Raoul argues, the old term of endearment that Philippe used when she was a girl making her lose her breath a little. “Will you sleep?”

Philippe narrows his eyes, though it doesn’t work terribly well under the medication’s influence. “I have three sisters and Christine and every servant in this house to make sure I do.”

“Philippe…” Raoul swallows. “Philippe I…I’m so sorry.”

“Raoul de Chagny,” Philippe whispers, his voice hoarse. “I will not allow you to blame yourself.”

“I sent a note to Dr. Aubert,” Raoul adds, hesitant to leave. “Asking him to come tomorrow.”

Philippe smiles, but he looks tired. “Very good. Now go, see to Christine, all right?”

Raoul relents, pressing a kiss to Philippe’s forehead before stepping out into the hallway. By some miracle she makes it to her own room without running in to anyone. She locks the door because she needs to not be bothered, for just one precious moment. Christine’s already there, sitting in the armchair with Raoul’s violin case leaned against it. Raoul sits down on the edge of the bed, something burning in the center of her chest.

“Is Philippe all right?” Christine asks.

Something about the simple line of inquiry, the look on Christine’s face that says she blames herself, makes that burning feeling in Raoul’s chest burst. She rests her face in her hands, willing herself not to cry.

It doesn’t work.

“Raoul?” Christine questions when no answer comes.

A sob bursts past Raoul’s lips. She starts crying, and she can’t stop.

Christine hurries over and sits on the bed too, pulling Raoul into a tight embrace. Raoul returns it, her fingers clinging to Christine’s dress.

“Oh Raoul, my darling,” Christine says softly, running her hand up and down Raoul’s back. “My only love.”

This makes Raoul cry harder, because she just wanted to save Christine, she just wanted to _help_ her, and now they’re both wrapped up in this masked man’s web. In his game.

Now they don’t have any option but to keep playing, or next, he might show up here.

There’s the sound of knocking at the door. Hard knocking.

“Raoul!” Eloise shouts, trying the doorknob to no avail. “Raoul, you come out here this instant!”

Raoul curls in closer toward Christine and she feels like a _coward_ but she’s so _tired_.

“We’ll be out soon,” Christine says, firmer than she’s sounded with anyone in the de Chagny house. “Raoul needs a moment alone.”

“Raoul!” Eloise shouts again. “Philippe is hurt and you…”

“Eloise.”

Juliette’s voice joins the fray.

“Philippe is hurt because of our sister, Juliette.”

“No. Philippe is hurt because a man wants to murder our sister and lock Christine away with him. Let’s go.”

Their voices fade as they go down the hallway, and Raoul takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I’m so sorry.” Christine pulls back from the embrace, cradling Raoul’s face with one hand and thumbing the tears away with the other. “Philippe will be all right. The doctor said he would. It will just take time. But he will. It’s not your fault.”

“He could have died.” Raoul chokes out the words. “That madman wanted to kill him and for what? Philippe’s not the one in love with you.”

“To hurt you,” Christine says, and she’s crying, too. “To scare you into letting me go.”

There’s fear in Christine’s voice, and it centers Raoul, somehow. She takes hold of Christine’s face, her fingers threading through the soft, familiar brown curls.

“Never.” Raoul sniffs, her voice cracking as she holds Christine’s gaze. “I will _never_ let you go.”

A profession.

A promise.

A vow.

Christine’s breath hitches, tears welling up in her eyes. “Raoul.”

She says the name like it’s something sacred. Something holy she’s not good enough for. But to Raoul, the chance to love Christine and be loved by her, is heaven itself. Neither of them are perfect, but together they might just be a miracle.

“Maybe you ought to stay home, for the opera,” Christine continues. “To watch over Philippe. To keep safe. He wants to kill you. I’m not worth any risk to your life.”

Raoul shakes her head, more tears spilling from her eyes. “You are worth every risk, my darling. I will be there with you every step of the way. My family will stay here. But I’m going with you. Wherever that may lead. I won’t let you go through this alone.”

There’s something in Christine’s eyes. Some fear she isn’t speaking. But she stays quiet and Raoul doesn’t press, not right now. They curl up side by side with arms and legs entangled atop the covers, falling asleep in the odd hush of the de Chagny house.

For once, no one is watching them.

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed I accidentally switched Raoul's ladies' maid from Madeline to Marie at some point, oops! She's back to Madeline. Bonus points if you caught my Love Never Dies reference here. I DISDAIN LND, but do like the idea of more Raoul and Erik confrontation, so I made use of some of those lyrics here, for my own purposes. 
> 
> Also, if you don't follow me on Tumblr (I am KCrabb88 over there!) I did make a playlist for this fic on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1P77qUTuqQntItkWc9MepH It's under the same name as this series. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> One more chapter before we get to Don Juan!


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